


This Is Not A Ghost Story

by blueinkedbones



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Canonical Character Death, M/M, dual realities
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-06-10 12:54:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6957328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueinkedbones/pseuds/blueinkedbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's that kind of moment, that weird feeling where everything kind of slows down, and goes kind of blurry and unreal. Where things just don't add up, and Stiles' own patterns and habits don't <em>make sense</em>. Not like he changed his mind, but like he can't even remember when his mind was ever <em>not</em> changed. There's just this black hole in his memory where he picked up the whatever it is in the first place, and the more Stiles tries to think about it, the bigger and bigger it gets, until he can't remember huge things. How old he is, his mom's first language. His<em> birthday</em>, what the<em> fuck</em>? The biggest, most obvious things, but all at once he's sure his is... and two dates float up in his memory, neither seeming more familiar.</p><p>Times like that, it's not really that reassuring that Derek likes the crazy ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the body remembers

**Author's Note:**

> this fic has been in the works for LITERALLY YEARS. sodium/castformi i owe you my unborn child.  
> here it it is.
> 
> warnings for ableist language, mostly the word "crazy" thrown around a bunch. s1 stiles was a bit of a shit, and he's mostly self-diagnosing.

Stiles has never fit.

In class, in school, in Beacon Hills. In his own bedroom, in his own body. Anywhere.

There's just this thing, this _thing_ about him that isn't right, or normal, and he's always known it. And—maybe subconsciously, or unconsciously, in vibrations or hormones, on some molecular level, everyone else knows it too.

And—and yeah, exactly, that's how every teenager thinks. Right? Typical ball of angst. My parents don't understand me! My teachers hate me! Everything is so _unfair_!

Except it's not some new development. It's not this sudden realization, along with puberty and acne and the urge to jerk off pretty much incessantly, until your junk is like, “Hey, easy. You wanna be premature? Because I can _make that happen_ , buddy. Watch it.” Or the other realization, about Danny Mahealani, and Scott McCall, and Derek Hale. And exactly how much Stiles wants to, like, climb them, and touch their stupidly attractive faces.

Even researching it, coming out videos and blogs and stuff, reading about how off people felt hiding it, how awkward and weird and obviously different—

No. That's not it.

Beacon Hills is like, the most progressively pro-gay place in the world. There are four different LGBTQA groups in the tenth grade alone. Which is like forty-three people total. Most of whom are the nonexistent A for ally variety, and so supportive Stiles' biggest worry about coming out is scheduling all the parties he'll suddenly be invited to.

So he's not—that's not why. That's not the feeling snaking through him, all the time, that he's... off. _Wrong_ in some way there isn't even a definition for, because there's no precedent. There's just him.

“I'm adopted, right?” he asked his dad, a million years ago. It's his first real memory, the first one that isn't based on photos or home video or some old familial anecdote, or some fuzzy blur he can't be sure didn’t come from a dream, or something on TV.

He'd thought about it, how his parents were, how he was, and it just... Because, because. Scott's exactly like his mom. He's caring and considerate and the first to help, and he loves animals and when he's sad his eyes get really wide and it _hurts_ , like being sucker-punched by someone you thought you loved.

Stiles' mom is a _math_ teacher. Math is Stiles' worst subject. She laughs like it's a secret, whisper-soft, her mouth just barely turning up at the corners, while his whole body shakes with it. He rambles and skips and goes back for things he's forgotten, and she tells stories so vivid Stiles can breathe them in.

Dad's a deputy, glued to the cases he brings home every night, the nights he's actually home. But he doesn't go out in the field much, and he likes it that way. Just in some office, filling out paperwork, giving tickets. Stiles doesn't, can't understand it, Dad being so close to the real action and not caring. It's like if you become a fireman to wake up in the middle of the night and then just pet the Dalmatian and make coffee and tell people where the fire is, and never even go _look_ at it.

And they're both so patient, and so _still_. So unruffled about everything. Even when Stiles gets detention, which he gets just about every Monday and Thursday now, because Harris really does hate him, Mom just smiles like it's funny and ruffles his hair, and Dad just looks tired and disappointed.

Just like always.

Stiles has always been a blurter. He'll think and think and think about something, and then it'll just come out. He can't keep secrets, can't be trusted with any kind of surprise, just getting progressively more and more nervous, until—out it comes.

But Dad just said, “No,” like Stiles had said the worst thing ever. Like _he'd_ been punched in the stomach.

That's maybe another reason why that's Stiles' first real memory.

You don't forget your dad giving you a look like that.

 

It's a Tuesday when Mom dies.

Tuesday is the best day of the week, because there's no Chemistry, _and_ double English, and Ms. Blake is the best teacher Stiles ever had. And usually Derek Hale doesn't have to babysit and stays late playing basketball, which means Stiles can awkwardly linger on the bleachers with his phone out like he's waiting for a ride, and contemplate pick-up lines, like: I'm not as hot as your ex, but I am as crazy... about you!

And that, your reaction right there? _That_ is why he just admires from afar. It's a lot safer. Stiles has done the compliment-until-your-heart-gets-stomped-on routine. The day Lydia finally turned around and said, “I know you're gay. Why don't _you_?” That, that was not a fun one.

Even if it meant she was wrong about something for once in her life, which Stiles'd thought would be a lot more satisfying to witness than it actually was.

Not that he's not gay, but: bisexuality. Kinsey scale, yo! _Spectrum_.

Does he heavily, heavily favor dudes? Sure. Sure, yeah. But there are exceptions to any good rule, and Lydia was one for a really, really long time. Until she said that, and he blinked at her, like, Why do I actually like you?

And couldn't, for the life of him, figure it out.

It's that kind of moment, that weird feeling where everything kind of slows down, and goes kind of blurry and unreal. Where things just don't add up, and Stiles' own patterns and habits don't _make sense_. Not like he changed his mind, but like he can't even remember when his mind was ever _not_ changed. There's just this black hole in his memory where he picked up the whatever it is in the first place, and the more Stiles tries to think about it, the bigger and bigger it gets, until he can't remember huge things. How old he is, his mom's first language. His _birthday_ , what the _fuck_? The biggest, most obvious things, but all at once he's sure his is... and two dates float up in his memory, neither seeming more familiar.

Times like that, it's not really that reassuring that Derek likes the crazy ones.

But it's Tuesday, so Stiles is up on the bleachers, pretending to text Malia, actually just blatantly staring at the sweaty nape of Derek's neck, and the blades of his shoulders, the...

The way he turns around and blinks at Stiles like he's got two heads, nostrils flaring.

Then Dad calls, and Stiles is so startled he almost drops his phone, because all the things that never happen are happening at _once_. Derek doesn't notice him, and Dad doesn't call. He barely talks, period. Just sighs really heavily at everything, and looks kind of beseechingly up at the ceiling sometimes, like, Really? You gave me _this_?

“Your mother's in the hospital,” Dad says.

Stiles' throat closes up.

Far off across the court, Derek turns around again, and stares at him, longer this time, and then...

Starts coming over.

Or, or. Coming _closer_. Derek Hale may be walking in his _direction_ , or, more like running now, but there's no way he actually...

Except he is. By the time Stiles can speak again Derek's less than a foot from him, and so Stiles has to say, voice tight and hoarse, “What happened?” and try not to cry in front of the latest love of his life, because maybe Derek likes crazy when she's all pretty and perfect and even more attractive with tears in her eyes, but Stiles isn't. Stiles cries messy, he laughs messy, he is messy. There's nothing attractive about it.

“It's not looking good,” Dad says. He's always been like this. Blunt, sharp, succinct. No point dancing around the truth. “She's asking for you.”

“I'm,” Stiles says, and then he is crying. Or about to, his eyes so full of tears he's blinded. He swipes at them, says, “I... I'm on my way.”

“I'll drive you,” Derek Hale says, even as the phone clicks in Stiles' ear.

“You don't even...” Stiles says, and can't choose how to end it. Know me. Know her. Know where I need to go.

But he does need the ride—it's that or wait for the bus, or walk. And the way Dad sounded, it didn't...

It just really doesn't feel like Stiles has a lot of spare time, right now.

“Hospital,” he says, and sniffs. “My mom...”

“She'll be okay,” Derek says, but he's wrong.

 

There aren't last words, there isn't anything. Stiles doesn't even get to see her. Derek speeds, tires screeching on the block of the hospital, and lets Stiles run out while he stalls his beat up Toyota in the middle of the street. But it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter. He's too late, she's gone.

When Dad says, “You were her whole world,” it's like he can't even stand to look at him.

 

Derek says, “I'm so sorry.”

Then he says, “Derek. I'm...” and the tips of his ears go pink, and he says, “My name's Derek Hale.”

Stiles doesn't say anything.

 

Derek keeps coming by. Everyone does.

They're all so fucking sorry.

It's whatever. Everything's whatever.

Stiles can't actually feel anything.

 

People stop coming by. With their casseroles and condolences, their vapid little memories where Mom's a guest star in their autobiography, all these little details Stiles knew better than anyone. _That smile... Those stories... Nothing ever got her down._

The past tense is the worst part, or maybe the part where Dad pours himself a drink, and never really stops pouring.

 

People stop coming by. Derek doesn't.

 

Dad's not eating. He's drinking plenty; no worries there—well. But eating, no. Which, yeah. Nothing like a Sorry About Your Dead Mom lasagna to kill your appetite. Horrible pun not intended.

But Mom would've laughed, that small secret laugh. She would've ruffled his hair.

Stiles isn't really that hungry himself, to be honest.

 

“You need to eat something,” Derek says. Stiles grimaces in welcome. “I mean it. You can't _not eat_.”

“I don't know if you've noticed,” Stiles says, gesturing at the catacombic house around them, “but...”

A lump wedges in his throat. He doesn't bother finishing the thought.

He doesn't have to.

“I know it's hard,” Derek says, and Stiles says,

“Really? Last time I checked, you only _almost_ lost your family. I _actually_ —”

But he stops, horrified at himself, the sound of his own voice.

“You're right,” Derek says. “My family's alive. You're right.”

It's a while before he says, “I really did love her.”

It's so long, actually, since the rest of their conversation, that Stiles almost thinks Derek means his mom. But they never knew each other.

“Kate,” Derek says. “I know what people say about her. I know it's not... simple. Nothing real is,” he says, a little tiredly, like he's playing out some old argument. “I'm not saying she was perfect, or—or sane. And I'm not comparing...” He looks up, catches Stiles' eyes, swears. “But we loved each other. She was real, and I loved her. And I lost her. That's not nothing.”

“She tried to kill your,” Stiles starts.

“Her father poisoned her,” Derek says. “He's the sick one, not her. She was just...”

“Following orders,” Stiles says. He can't help himself.

“Shut up,” Derek says. “She wasn't a fucking Nazi. You don't know what he's like.”

“You don't know what Hitler was like,” Stiles offers. “He killed his own dogs. That he'd had for years.” And that's not—Stiles isn't actually trying to defend Nazis to Derek Hale right now. He's just stubborn, and playing Devil's advocate, and gets caught up in it.

“He hurt her,” Derek says. His voice is shaking. “He hurt her, he hurt her and he _killed her mom_. He killed her mom and he blamed it on us, on my family, do you think you wouldn't—If someone convinced you, if someone really convinced you this was my fault—”

“How could they?” Stiles says.

“He's sick,” Derek says. “He's sick, and he twisted everything, and he told her what to do. How exactly to trap us, and, and set...” There's the softest little scoff in his throat, then. “But she couldn't do it. She couldn't do that to me. So he did it to her.”

“He _set_ her—” Stiles says. He sure as hell never heard about _that_.

“He told her what everyone was saying,” Derek says. “What everyone was saying about her. How crazy she was. And dangerous. That it wasn't us at all, that she misunderstood. Stormed off before he could explain, that...”

There's real rage in Derek's eyes, jaw set sharp, but he looks down, and his lip trembles.

“He told her that it was her,” he mutters. “Her fault. That she almost killed us for what she... That's not _suicide_ ,” he spits. “That's murder. I don't care who lit the match.”

“My dad's a deputy,” Stiles says, on instinct. Before he remembers how clocked out Dad is now, how no one needs to see that. That won't help Derek, or anyone.

“And who's the sheriff, Stiles?” Derek says. “Try to remember.”

His voice is sharper, deader than Stiles has ever heard it.

And—right.

Kate, Kate _Argent_.

And her dad, that's... Sheriff Argent. Of course.

Except it's that feeling, that feeling again. Because as sure as Stiles knows that, has always known about Sheriff Gerard Argent, he's also sure that he doesn't, and _didn't_. He remembered because Derek reminded him that he was supposed to know, but if not, he never would've.

And that should be _nonsense_. That should be impossible.

You shouldn't be able to get new _old_ memories! That can't happen, that's crazy. That's crazier than Kate Argent ever was.

“Stiles,” Derek says.

His old voice again, the soft one, the _I'll drive you_ voice. _You need to eat something_ voice.

“I didn't mean to,” Derek says, “snap at you. It's not your fault.”

But it's worse, it's worse. It's the worst it's ever been.

Because he can't remember. He can't remember.

Mom died less than a week ago, and Stiles can't remember her name.

 


	2. duality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: a kind of suicide note. also kate argent and all that entails.
> 
> if the dual dereks/other inconsistencies are too confusing, there's a short, mostly non-spoilery explanation in the chapter end notes.

There's something almost comforting in the knowledge that Beacon Hills is still the same shithole it always was. Arrows to bullets, nothing really changes. More blood on the pavement, less blood in you. Makes six years feel like a caught breath.

Derek runs.

It doesn't matter what it is behind him. He's not one of those easy kills who turns around like anything behind him could change his trajectory. If his gaze twists back, if his eyes go wide, that's just the new surge of adrenaline kicking through him.

This fast she's a blonde blur, and he doesn't feel anything. No flash of recognition, no crawling phantom fingers. No fear.

He knows better.

It's her, it's always been her, but it doesn't fucking _matter_.

Derek should've just killed her when he had the chance. He could've reached out and snapped her neck, and that would've been the end of it. He could've followed that alpha scent when it was fresh, hunted it down and destroyed it for taking everything. Laura, Hale power. The last living thing he'll ever be soft enough to believe in.

That hesitation, that hope, that's what defeats him, every time.

And without it...

There's nothing that can hurt him anymore.

If he just turns around, now, reaches for her. If he could trust his betrayer bones not to settle back into place underneath her.

Maybe he could finally stop running.

Truth is he's the same dumb kid he always was. Still looking, still hoping.

But this is Beacon Hills, after all.

The only thing you can depend on is the constant stream of shit.

 

Derek runs, and the bullet's poison runs through him, and … Well. It was always a matter of time.

Gravity wins in some bright, sun-shiny parking lot, Derek's eyes screwing shut against the glare.

Times like this, even the strongest wolf calls his pack. Derek's never been strong.

But there isn't any pack. There isn't anyone.

The wolfsbane's warm where it creeps through him, then scalding, and then a numb kind of cold.

He's tired, and scared, and sick of pretending he isn't.

The tears come too quick to keep back, but he barely makes a sound.

 

Of course it isn't that easy. Of course that can't be the end of it, some frantic fade-to-black before she overtakes him. Of course.

Derek's life is just that fucking predictable.

“Sweetheart,” Kate purrs over him. He watches her through a fog, blonde hair and vampire grin. That madness it took him too long to see. “You didn't really think I'd let you go _that_ easy.” Her fingertips graze his cheek, thumb dabbing at the still-damp place under his eye. Lips pursing with some sadistic take on sympathy. “Oh, _Derek_.”

He really should kill her, but he can't muster up the energy.

She drags up the hem of his shirt, opens her hand. Aconite ash hits his skin still smoking. Meets the bullet, explodes.

“I mean, come on,” she says, pressing her cold palm to Derek's shuddering side. Even now, after everything, his body doesn't listen. Can't take the fucking _hint_ of her bullet in him over this brief touch. She leans in, her hair puddling over his chest, and he tenses, but he can't sell it. He's a live wire under her, her heat her scent her velvet voice. Even now, as she smirks against him, as she laughs.

As she says, “If I wanted you dead, honey, you'd be scattered better than your sister.”

 

Across town, the police scanner Stiles jacked from the station crackles to life, seasoning the stale air with a thin shower of dust.

 

~ 

 

 

“I want you to meet my mom,” Derek says.

Stiles blinks at him.

It's their second date. Their first, if you don't count Stiles having a panic attack and Derek helping him through it and then ordering a pizza. Which Stiles shouldn't, but it really was the most heartwarming thing.

Not then, no. _Then_ he was scared to death, and then choking on adrenaline, and then—pizza. But after, after waking up on the couch with a stiff neck and a blanket around him, and Derek asleep upright on the loveseat, right-angled from him, still holding the remote out to the whisper-quiet TV like he was trying to keep himself awake. Keep watch.

Stiles is just a big softy, okay. His heart is pure molasses. But that... That was a whole new level of sap.

Still, he wasn't expecting a meet-the-family ambush until, like... a really fuckin far away date. They haven't even kissed. They're barely past _holding hands_. Really, this is not how Stiles imagined dating Derek Hale would go at all.

He didn't really ever focus on the _date_ part, to be honest.

But Derek's looking at him, so wide eyed and sincere and hopeful, and it's like that Sad Scott McCall look. You can't say no to someone with that face. Not if you have a soul.

“Sure, yeah,” Stiles says. “You have a specific date in mind?”

 

Stiles can't remember how Mom died.

And that's it, that's it. Dad's in the kitchen still drinking off the ache of it, but Stiles keeps thinking about how _sudden_ it was. No sickness, no warning, nothing. And did Dad ever say what happened? Did anyone?

 _She's been dead this whole time_ , his brain jokes. Stiles scowls at himself. He's always had that talent, the worst thought at the worst moment. Trying not to bust up laughing at a funeral.

He doesn't remember a funeral.

He grabs at his head with both hands, squeezes the back of his scalp like he can choke his own thoughts out.

He used to have a buzz cut, didn't he? There's this really vivid picture in his head, him and Scott messing around and Scott laughing so hard he spit his gum in Stiles' hair. Mom cutting it out, shaving it down, and then—then it just became what Stiles looked like, ever since.

Except Scott, Scott _McCall_? Barely knows Stiles exists. They don't _hang out_ , they're not—bosom buddies. In kindergarten Stiles accidentally let the class rabbit out of its cage for a _second_ , and who could've predicted what a freakin' master of disguise ninja that little guy was? Not kindergarten Stiles, that's for sure. It turned up dead under the radiator, and Scott was inconsolable for _days_. Any hope at a Scott-Stiles friendship was a little strained, after that. Scott's nodded at him a few times, that was it. And Stiles can't be sure that nod doesn't just mean _You know what you did_.

So began the loner years! So continued the loner years. It's not—No, no. Don't feel bad, it wasn't like that. All depressing and morose, and, like—no. Who even needs friends when you can just watch Friends? Over and over, really taking it apart. Analyzing.

But then in high school Malia just kind of found him, and stayed. So that's cool. Kind of weird, because Stiles doesn't really, like... call people, or hang out. So mostly they just text, so it's like she's just another one of his Warcraft buddies, or something. There's no _wrestling_ , or laughing so hard you get gum in your hair and don't even feel bad about it. And memorialize it, in your style choices, or whatever. That warm feeling.

Did Stiles actually ever have short hair?

Maybe, maybe he's just possessed. There's something in him, tripping him up, scrambling everything. Maybe he really is crazy, and it's not some half-jokey word to throw around like self-diagnosing makes it less serious. Maybe his brain's just shrinking, maybe there's a tumor pressing down against it and he's dying. Maybe that's what dandruff is: your brain, blowing out of your ears like dandelion fluff.

Overactive imagination. That was the early diagnosis, the report card comment conclusion. There's just so much going on in Stiles' mind at any given time, he can't focus on anything. And who _doesn't_ confidently tell their new neighbor Mrs. Kazinsky that, oh, cool, their mom is Polish too, actually. And then try to find that book of folk stories they used to keep in the mini-library in the bottom of the linen closet, and, ha, so funny! Literally all of that was wrong. There's just linen in the closet, Mom's Russian. Everyone's really bewildered, or would've been, if Stiles hadn't played like they were on Punk'd or something. So hilarious! Nothing I remember is real. _Knee_ -slapping, am I right.

Even now, Derek, that doesn't make any more sense. Derek turning his head across a basketball court like he felt Stiles' eyes on him, or something. Running toward him, like he could hear him freaking out before the freakout even really started. _Dating_ him, _what_? If that's even what they're doing. Their fingers brush and all Stiles hears is porn music, but they haven't done anything. Derek's just been _nice_. And romantic, in a middle school kind of way.

But he wants Stiles to meet his _mom_. That's not—that's not a _friend_ thing.

Not that Stiles would know.

( _Bazinga!_ The studio audience goes wild.)

Stiles grabs at his phone. Stares at the screen, at his three contacts: Malia, Derek, Mom.

 _Why do you want me to meet your_ , Stiles taps out. Erases it.

 _Why did you even start talking to_ — No.

 _Are we more than friends, or am I just_ — Nope, no. Definitely not.

To Malia, then: _How do you know if your dating someone_

He reads it back, adds, _*you're_

Sets the phone down, and waits.

 

He's playing chess on his phone when Malia texts.

_lil sis & co r destroying the house w this dumb party thing. come mock ppl w me_

He looks around for a few seconds, like he's weighing better offers.

And shrugs.

 

“So you—want him.” Malia says. They're hidden away in her bedroom, where the steady pumping bass is a little more bearable. “Like, _sexually_.”

“He's hot like the sun, so, yes,” Stiles says. Has he mentioned his sexuality to her before? He can't remember. He didn't exactly plan ahead, mark it in a calendar.

It's Mary-Kate and Stiles' Coming Out Party! And _you're_ invited. Coming soon to VHS.

“So you'd wanna,” Malia says. Her face is weird. “Kiss him, and stuff.”

“And stuff,” Stiles agrees, nodding emphatically. His head catches the beat of the EDM song playing at demolition levels, keeps bobbing along for a while before he notices. “So much stuff, wow.”

“So you like guys,” Malia says, and wow, okay, they're doing this.

“I like a little of everything,” Stiles tells her. “But... a lot of guys. Like—the vast majority.” Is this awkward? It feels kind of awkward. Her face is doing a thing he can't figure out.

There are no homophobes in Beacon Hills, Stiles reminds himself. Any remaining bigots would've, like, spontaneously combusted under the force of everyone else's outrage. Or been chased out by a mob of townspeople with flaming torches.

Flaming gay torches.

But even the joke can't settle the sudden queasiness in his gut.

“You're not,” he blurts out, because of course he does. “Mad. Or... disappointed.”

“Don't be stupid,” Malia says, and hugs him.

She's looking at him even more oddly when they pull away.

 

“Isn't he hung up on his ex,” Malia says. “The one who tried to—you know.”

“Burn his house to the ground? Yeah, about that,” Stiles says. He's trying very hard not to do something stupid and exactly like him, like blurting out, _You're not okay with this_ , and losing her. So they hardly talk outside of texts, so what? She's still his best friend. “He says it was all her dad. Manipulating her.”

Malia looks at him pointedly.

“He's not _hung up on her_ ,” Stiles says. “He's, like—He loved her. But _loved_ , you know? Past tense.”

“He's a teenaged widower,” Malia says. “Not exactly a fun first time. He probably cries after sex.”

“Shut up,” Stiles says. Just a little too heated.

“You really do like him,” Malia says. There's that look again, that assessing look. Like Stiles is an equation Malia can't seem to solve.

“So what if I do?” Stiles says. He's getting tenser and tenser, more defensive. It's getting harder to bite the thought back. That there's actually one homophobe in the whole county, and it just has to be his best friend.

“You remember prom?” Malia says abruptly. “We got really drunk, and you kissed me, in the grass under the bleachers.”

“It wasn't,” Stiles says, remembering all at once. “I was... I don't know. Tired, I guess.” Memory, Stiles hates his memory. How it comes like an afterthought, like watching a movie, but it's you.

He's sure it shouldn't work like that.

“I just,” he says, struggling to get a grip on something more than a picture. The slightest flash of feeling, something to mark the memory as _his_. “I just wanted to feel something.”

“Do you remember,” Malia says. Too carefully. “What you said. After.”

Now he does. Once she's mentioned it, cued it up in his head.

The world spinning, but so still, and this draining dread, all through him. This wall between him and any kind of normal.

Sitting in the grass trying to make it all stop, trying to make it okay, and her hand on his arm. And he reached out, urged her close.

But it was awkward, and weird, and the worst worst feeling. They lay down in the grass behind the bleachers, staring up at the sky, the starlight through the slats, and Stiles said,

“I think maybe I’m—neither.”

This fire in his throat, the rolling dread in his gut filling him up, and up, and up.

“You know?” he said. Eyes prickling, vision blurring. Blinking, and blinking, and blinking. “Not gay, not straight. None.”

“Both?” Malia said, and Stiles shook his head. The world swung.

“I don't,” he said, hoarse, “I don't like it. Kissing, or—Any of it.”

“You don't have to,” Malia said, but Stiles shook his head again.

“You don't get it,” he said, impossibly desperate. For someone to know what it felt like, someone to _understand_. “I don’t do friends. I thought, if I just found one person, everything would just... click. Into place, you know? And then... the rest of it wouldn't matter. If I just had that one person.”

He sniffed.

“But that's never gonna happen now,” he said. “I don't like any of it. And you can't, you can't expect... It's survival,” he said. “In our genes, you know? _Survival_ of the _species_ depends on it. So everyone else, they're, like, hardwired to want... and I can't, I can't be that. For anybody.”

“Stiles,” Malia said, soft, and reached for him, but Stiles turned his head and vomited into the grass.

 

“I don't,” Stiles says. It's not like his other memories. He can still feel his head spinning. The bitter burn in his throat, the tight lead weight on his chest. “I don't understand.”

“I need to show you something,” Malia says, and gets her phone from the dresser. Settles back down on the bed with it between them. “Just... you need to hear this.”

She taps at her screen a few times, brings up a voice message.

“'m sorry.”

It's Stiles' voice.

Blurry, unfocused. Drunk, maybe.

“I just can't,” the Stiles on the phone says. “I just can't. It's never gonna be different.”

“What is this,” Stiles says. Something icy pooling in his gut.

Malia shushes him.

“I know we're not friends,” the Stiles on the phone says. “I don't have friends. But I...” His breath catches, and catches, and catches.

“I'm scared,” he says.

He says, “I don't wanna be alone.”

A hiccup, then, “I don't wanna die alone. So, so—I'm sorry. For doing this, but—Don't feel bad, okay? Don't feel bad. You couldn't've stopped me.”

“What the fuck,” Stiles says. The whole room is spinning. “What the _fuck_. I didn't—I wouldn't've...” His hands are freezing, he's freezing. “Wh—Why are you showing me this?”

“Because you've never heard it before,” Malia says. “You don't remember it. Because you're _not him_."

"That's not," Stiles says. He feels drunk, seasick. Completely out of control.

"What are you?” Malia says. Her eyes are blazing. "What do you _want_."

“I'm Stiles,” Stiles says. He's never felt less sure. Of anything. "I'm Stiles."

“I'm a werecoyote,” Malia says. Matter-of-fact, like that's a _thing_. “And you don't smell like Stiles.”

The Stiles on the phone starts to gasp.

“You smell like death,” Malia says. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are two separate realities. they're pretty different. take place at the same time, though. basically, there's canonland and AUland. canonland's pretty similar to s1, with a couple of differences because stiles wasn't there to take scott to the woods to look for a dead body. AUland's very different, for numerous reasons.
> 
> this curly thing/negative sign ( ~ ) = the divide between realities


	3. fissures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if the dual dereks/other inconsistencies are too confusing, i added a short, mostly non-spoilery explanation in the chapter 2 end notes.

Stiles stumbles half blind through the party, Skrillex's bass drop a thousand times slower than his own rocketing heartbeat. Through drunken humping couples, past the unfocused faces, the slow motion wagging mouths. All of it moving at half speed, his head spinning, his skin screaming to get away.

And one unshakable thought, ricocheting through him like a bullet fired in a metal matchbox.

Three contacts, right? Three contacts. Derek, Mom, Malia.

But Mom's gone, and Malia thinks _Stiles_  is, and now...

Now he's down to one.

 

It's stupid, it's the worst decision Stiles's ever made. Dialing Derek with fumbling fingers, limbs heavy and impossibly unwieldy, chest so numb with cold, being dead doesn't even feel unlikely. It's less a decision and more an imperative, the instinctive motions that come with drowning. Kicking at the water like those old dreams of jump-flying, leaning back and back and back, gagging and gagging.

It's stupid, but the realization doesn't sink in until it's too late. Until he stops shuddering into the phone long enough to hear Derek say, “Stiles, what is it? What's wrong?”

Hear the tremor, the terror in it.

One contact, one last remaining lifeline, and if Stiles says a word, he'll burn right through it.

And then what?

He can't breathe, he can't breathe, but his rattling hands rap at the screen, shut Derek out.

There's just one person who Stiles can talk to, now.

For once, it's almost a relief having an alcoholic father.

 

Dad's got his hands wrapped around a bottle like it's the only warmth in a cold cold world, and maybe it is. Maybe it is.

Stiles is jittery, body dragging dead, spirit electric, too too alive, but he slows himself down, gets a glass. Pulls out a chair, tips the glass out in Dad's direction, just barely nudging the bottle, his dad's warm knuckles.

“Hit me,” he says.

They drink together, Stiles and his dad, until he's warm in the throat, warm in the chest, thoughts slowing down to syrup. His frayed nerves settling, settling.

And he says, “Can you, just... _Look_ at me.” Voice low, but plaintive, childish. “You never... You never look at me.”

Dad stares through his glass, swishes it slightly, unless it’s a sudden sharp tremor in his fingers.

“I can't,” he says. “I, I can't do that.”

Stiles swallows, swallows, swallows what feels like broken glass. Staring down at nothing, nodding, like any of this makes sense. Like it all adds up, somehow.

Then he says, “Why not.”

“You know why,” Dad says.

“I don't,” Stiles says. Voice cracking, going up and up and up. “I don't, I _don't_. What's wrong with me.”

“You look like him,” Dad says. Grimacing all through it, but Stiles can hear it. The shake there, the weight of everything he's never said spilling out, pinning him down. “That what you wanna hear? You look just goddamn like him. How he would've looked.”

“Stiles,” Stiles says.

It's not really a question, anymore.

“He was her whole world,” Dad says. “Our whole world.”

It feels like being stabbed. Body numbing so quickly you can't even feel the pain. Just the heat of it, the force of the blow. The warm blood, spreading.

“We would've done anything for him,” Dad says. “I would've done _anything_. If he'd just asked. Just said something.”

“So it's—true,” Stiles says. It can't be, it can't be, but the reality of it is fizzing through him, and settling, settling, settling.

Feeling realer all the time.

That call...

His own voice, his own death. Hearing his own body choking and choking, and then— _not_. The stretching-on silence, after. All the way up to a sudden crashing commotion, to Dad’s voice, a shadow of itself, “Stiles? _Stiles!_ ”

“Turn it off,” he told Malia. Too slow, he couldn't speak fast enough. He couldn't _speak_. “Turn it off, turn it _off_. _Stop it!_ ”

But Stiles couldn’t stop hearing it.

“That message,” he says. Feeling dead, feeling deader than dead, feeling buried. “That really happened.”

“There was no _message_ ,” Dad says bitterly. “We looked. Tore the house apart, looking for a... a note, a sign. Something. Anything we might've missed.”

“What am I,” Stiles says. If Dad's not his dad, if he's not... him. What else is there? “Am I a, a—zombie?”

Is that what it is, why it's so hard to remember. Does he need to _eat brains_ to remember?

It barely feels like a joke, anymore.

“He was gone,” Dad says. Knuckles white on the bottle, like it's the only weapon he has. If Stiles, if the thing that still calls itself his kid's name, that wears his skin, turns out to be a monster. “He was long gone. And then Julia did... something. Some— _summoning_ , something. To get him back.”

Him, him, _him_.

“But we didn't,” Dad says. Voice wooden, dead. Looking up too suddenly, catching Stiles' eyes.

Nothing can ever really prepare you for that kind of loathing.

“We didn't get him back,” Dad says. Except he isn't, Stiles isn't. There isn't a word for who they really are to each other. “We didn't get him back,” he says again. Raising a shaking finger, pointing it right up against Stiles' chest. Stabbing, once, again, again.

“We got you.”

 

“He was my friend,” Malia said, before Stiles took off running. “Maybe he didn't know it, but he was. I would’ve...”

Eyes shining, shining with tears.

“We didn’t talk,” Malia said. “On the phone, ever. We texted, we didn’t...”

She said, “I never check my messages.”

Like it was the worst, worst confession.

 

He knew, he knew. He always knew, didn't he? Always knew there was something. Always knew Dad resented him, just never knew why. Not with Mom always in the middle, making him keep the ruse alive.

And he did it, he did it for her. Even as it killed him, tore his soul out. His dead son staring up at him, and his wife beaming at it, pushing him to swallow the grief down, down, down, and embrace this stranger.

This _thing_.

But once she was gone, there wasn't a reason. There wasn't a reason to pretend any of it was anything but a sick joke. One long stretch of denial.

Cat's out of the bag, now.

All that's left is where the hell Stiles fits into any of this.

 

“Stiles,” Derek says. He's left half a million messages, he's crying. “Stiles, please pick up. Please, _please_. Tell me where you are.”

There's a wide dead hole in Stiles' chest, a constant thundering reminder: He's not Stiles. Not really.

Maybe not even human.

But Derek's begging, he's _crying_. Hurting, Stiles' hurting him. Scaring him to death, because...

Because all of this is too familiar.

Kate Argent was never actually declared missing. She was just _found_.

What was left of her.

“Stiles,” Derek says, soft.

So, so quiet.

Stiles curls small in his bed, head pounding. Presses his cheek against the pillow, eyes heavy, fixed on the phone beside it.

“Talk to me,” Derek says. “Just talk to me. Just... don't do this. God, don't do this, _Stiles?_ ”

He doesn't even have a clue, not an inkling, that the real Stiles did _this_ long before their first conversation.

But Stiles, whoever, whatever Stiles really is, he can't do this. Scaring Derek like this, dragging him into it and leaving him with nothing but another million unanswered questions.

He takes a breath, another. Still feels like he needs them, whatever he is. He tried, but he can't hold it without his body— _Stiles_ ' body intervening. Without giving in in less than a minute, gasping and gasping and gasping.

So he breathes, he just breathes. Like he's okay, like all of this could be okay. Eventually.

Whatever else is happening, Derek doesn’t deserve this. Not again.

He picks up the phone with a heavy hand, texts, _It’s okay. I'm okay._

_Come over, okay? I wanna see you._

 

~

 

Derek closes his eyes, tries not to feel at all, but the rest of his senses just kick in to make up the difference. Yards away from Kate's easy purred knives, her endless polished power trip, there's the crackle of a police radio, a gruff familiar voice.

"I got a 217, 10-54, parking lot of 1151 Clairemont."

A car door opening, and Derek tries and fails not to settle with some trapped child's sense of relief.

The sheriff's here.

 

"What," Kate says. Her voice goes sharper; she's worried. He shouldn't be so calm. "What is it."

She hears it too, schools her face into a smirk. "Tell me," she says. "Puppy."

A million years ago, a lifetime, that was a joke. A joke between them. Derek rolling his eyes, scowling. Almost entirely for show. Barely maintaining it, stupidly warm, he said, "I hate pet names."

" _Baby_ ," Kate said, and kissed him, laughed into his cheek.

"I mean it," he said, almost squirming, something wild and wonderful lighting through him. "I mean it, don't—"

"Honeybuns," she said, and he snorted. "Sugartits." Pausing, considering. Smiling softly at him. "Puppy."

He froze, a split second, before she frowned and said, "What's wrong?" And he relaxed, relaxed again.

They were in love, they were perfect. He could tell her anything.

He never, never fucking saw it coming.

 

"What do you want," he says. He's tired, tired of this. This pointless back and forth. This joke, this endless, endless game, like she hasn't won everything already. "Kate," he says, and stops until she looks at him, really looks at him. "Really," he says. "What do you _want_ from me."

To set him on fire, probably. Watch him burn, and laugh, and laugh. At what an idiot he is.

Put him out, just to do it all again.

But she blinks, hesitates. Looks down, away, like she's been caught at something.

Derek can't make sense of it.

"Stand up and step away," the sheriff says, and she nods, too understanding. Like that was some trick.

It wasn't a trick.

Her face goes cold again, eyes hard, smile sharp.

"Step away from him," the sheriff says, sharper. "Do it now."

As she backs away, hands up, face a mocking mask, as the sheriff crouches at Derek's side, says, "Hey, you with me? It's alright. It's over."

Derek can't help but feel almost disappointed.

 

She's cuffed, booked, but that doesn't matter. Derek doesn't for one second believe that'll actually stop her, in the long run.

The sheriff can't do anything. He doesn't _know_ anything, and he couldn't stop her even if he did.

No one can.

Still, he keeps his face blank. Nods, nods at all the sheriff's reassurances, that he's gonna make this _stick_. Get justice for Derek, for his family.

Anything, he'll do anything to make it stop. This awful, awful fantasy, that's sure to shatter in a second.

Outside the station, he lurches, gags, black blood splattering across the pavement.

 

For a while he just walks, aimless, unsteady. There isn't anywhere. There isn't anything.

There's the alpha, the the thing that killed his sister, but he's in no shape for fighting. And as bad as things are, he's not chasing it down to die.

He ends up, as he always does, at his old house. Half torn up, abandoned, Beacon Hills' worst safety hazard. He walks in gingerly, half-expecting to fall through the floorboards, end all of this getting buried alive.

His old bedroom's on the second floor, unreachable. The fire devoured half the staircase. Trapped his little sister up there, and that's enough reason to never attempt it, even if she would've been trapped just the same at the front door.

The old green couch is still there, in the living room, faded from the fire and the water it took putting it out. He can't bring himself to actually sit on it. Play house here, pretend this could ever be comfortable, when just standing in the doorway feels like swallowing acid. But his eyes are fixed, his shattered-glass throat and heart and lungs, overtaken.

It's the only thing that still smells something like them.

 

"Derek," the sheriff says. Shaking Derek from the same tired nightmare. His voice so light, for a human's. Sorry. "Are you—You're not _staying_ here."

"You followed me," Derek says. That's how sloppy he's getting, how blind; he didn't even notice.

"You're a witness," the sheriff says. "I—We need to be able to reach you. You didn't leave any contact information."

Of course, of course. Still on this, still playing this role of due diligence. The bullshit _case_.

"Well," Derek says. Smiling just a little mockingly, spreading his already healed arm out, fingers splayed. _Ta-dah._ "Here I am."

"Here you are," the sheriff mutters, a little woodenly. "Derek, you can't stay here."

This again. Derek rolls his eyes, tries to blink away the burn.

"We can get you a hotel room," the sheriff says. "Standard procedure. Just until this settles down."

Until, until. As if it ever will.

"Or," the sheriff says. Almost tentative, but getting surer as he goes. "I've got a room. It's nothing fancy, but it's a hell of a lot more homey than—" _This_ , Derek's sure he almost says. Watches him clear his throat. "Some hotel," he finishes, looking apologetic. "I'm not the best cook in the world, but there's nothing you can't order from a hotel room you can't order from my couch. So."

He's offering _his_ home.

"I can't," Derek starts, finds himself tongue-tied. "You don't know how long this'll take."

"I don't care," the sheriff says. "Honestly, I could do with some noise in the house."

Derek stares at him.

"I wouldn't be offering if I didn't mean it," the sheriff says. "I mean it. You'd be doing me a favor. Whatd'ya say."

"I don't need," Derek means to say, but he doesn't. He's a stupid, childish, hopeful idiot, and the thought of some sex-stained hotel room makes him dizzy.

He nods.

"Just for a while," he says, and the sheriff nods along in a not-agreeing-just-hearing kind of way.

"You have anything you wanna pick up from somewhere?" he asks. "I'll drive."

Laura's Camaro is still parked here somewhere. Full of her things, her scent. Her cut in half body still burned on the back of Derek's eyelids.

"Nothing important," Derek says.

 

"Kitchen," the sheriff says, pointing it out. "Nothing's off limits, just put a list on the fridge if we're out of something. Living room, there's—" Pointing, pointing. "TV, Xbox—Can't tell you if that works, though. That way's the bathroom," leading Derek down the hall, "Linen closet, washer dryer..." Coming to a stop. "My room, and—yours." Opening a door into a lightly flowery guest room.

There's a door he hasn't pointed out, one he seems to be unable to turn his back on, but then he does.

"And that's it," he says. "No big surprises, but it's—"

He stops again, clears his throat again, awkward.

_Home._

No big surprises, but it's home.

Derek nods, nods. They kind of stand there for a minute, Derek unsure of where to go, what to do next.

"Well, you settle in," the sheriff says finally, clapping Derek on the shoulder. "I'm back to work. There's leftovers in the fridge, but you can order—I'll leave you some—"

"I have money," Derek says. That much charity, he can't allow.

"Well, alright," the sheriff says, awkward again. "You got a phone? Because I can—Ahh."

Derek holds it out at him.

"Okay, then," the sheriff says, Nodding a little, like he's working on being sure. "Guess I'll see you."

"Guess," Derek echoes, and watches him leave.

 

He settles on the couch, flicks on the TV, watches an infomercial, half a nonsensical soap, and starts channel surfing.

That door keeps appearing in his mind, an unscratched itch. The way the sheriff stood near it, like if he opened it, they'd be staring out into another time. Catching themselves on the doorway, scrambling back, and looking down at the world from some immense height up in space.

It's ridiculous, but Derek can't help it. It's too easy, staying here, the sudden safety monotonous, and he can't help inventing some secret garden.

He shakes his head, puts it firmly out of his mind, looks around for something to do. There are dishes in the sink, so he does that. The trash is looking close to full; he takes it out. Opens the fridge, finds stuff in there that looks older than he is. Empties everything onto two towels, sorts and throws out anything that smells decayed. Puts the rest back, with something closer to order.

But eventually, he runs out of things to do, and that door swims back up through his memory.

He walks down the hallway, a cautious thief, hypersensitive of sound.

Ends up in front of it, somehow paralyzed.

It's so absurd Derek shakes himself, makes himself take the handle. Turn it, step inside.

It's a teenager's blue-walled bedroom. That's all, that's all. Band posters on the walls, laundry on the floor, shelves of books and DVDs, a crowded dresser. About eight seperate tissue boxes in different corners of the room.

Derek smirks.

There's a desk, too, with a dark-screened laptop, a dusty keyboard.

A spilled-over chair.

The back of Derek's neck starts to prickle.

"Don't," the sheriff says behind him. Derek half-turns. "Not this room. Not this room, I'm sorry."

Standing just behind the doorway, a haunted look on his face. Like Derek's treading on hallowed ground.

Derek kind of remembers a kid. Years and years ago, before the fire. Constantly moving, a whirlwind of energy. Nothing like this static scene.

For a minute, he can't tamp down the sudden swell of grief that rises up in him. He'd been getting better at it, at getting past it. Not letting the loss drag him down somewhere he can't escape. Laura-mandated therapy, insisting: _We're already targets. We can't afford to be weak._

But this room, the look in the sheriff's eyes...

Like it hasn't been a day. And it hasn't numbed, not an inch of it, and he won't pretend it has.

Derek nods, steps back into the hall. Something like relief billows in the air, then dims as the sheriff turns back, gently closes the door behind them.

_Honestly, I could do with some noise in the house_ , he’d said. Offering his home, and Derek thought it was. He doesn’t know. Some sense of of duty, or charity.

He didn't know the sheriff lost a child. His only child.

“I'm sorry,” he says. The sheriff nods, just barely, acknowledging.

“That night,” he says. “At the station, with your sister. It shouldn't have gone down like it did. You didn't deserve that.”

“It was suspicious,” Derek says. He can't look at him. “I... It wasn't rational. Trying...”

It's impossible to explain. 

Seeing Laura laid out like a horror movie prop, he couldn't. Couldn't actually feel anything.

Just knew he couldn't... Couldn't just let them collect her like evidence, leave him with his hands shoved in his pockets, staring out at nothing.

Numbed empty, hollowed out. 

He just had to do _something_. So he did something. Dug a grave, filled it up. And for a few hours, for a few hours he didn't have to think. Or feel. Or think about why he wasn't feeling, when any sane person would be... different. Paralyzed, or something, or _sobbing_. Wild with _furious vengeance_ , or whatever the fuck. While all he felt was. Nothing.

"I don't know," Derek says. "I don't know. I just."

He doesn't know why, why he feels obligated to explain himself. To the sheriff, to _himself_. Like there's some right way to do this, some script he needs to follow. Like if he just hits all his marks, that'll prove something. Make him a little less of the fuckup who started all of this.

"I just n. Needed to. Keep her," he lies. "Somehow."

There, is that tragic enough? His voice shaking on _needed_ , he didn't even plan that. The way it keeps shaking, the way his jaw's starting to lock.

"I don't know," he says again, but his voice turns fucking alien, his body. He can't stop the vibrations in his bones, the way his eyes burn, the way...

This saccharine sympathy in the sheriff's silence, Derek feels sick. Furious at himself, at his body, playing out this tortured victim role when he doesn't feel. _Anything_.  

"It wasn't that," he backtracks. "It wasn't... There wasn't. Logic. Behind it."

It's a fight just to get the words out clean, without his body's bullshit dramatics.

"I don't know," he says. "I don't know why. I just." He doesn't know why he's still talking. "I had to do. Something."

He's too tired for this. To talk, to think.

To pretend to be a person.

"I'm sorry," he says, abruptly. "About." He doesn't know. "I'm just sorry."

“Yeah,” the sheriff says.


	4. heart and soul

“Stiles,” Derek says, into his neck, his shoulder. “Stiles, Stiles.”

He hasn't said anything else yet. Since two minutes after Stiles' texts, when his phone came alive, and then Derek was at the door, and then pressed up against his side, breathing and breathing and breathing his name.

This is the longest hug Stiles has ever experienced.

And that's another thing.

Stiles, whatever he really is, he likes hugs. They're these warm soothing squeezes of affection, what's not to like? Derek wrapped all around him, and the part of Stiles that's, you know, _him_ , is loving this. Patting his back, feeling him be soothed by it, it's incredible. This incredible, emotional moment.

His body hates it.

And this is it, that inconsistency. What he likes and knows and feels, and what Stiles' body does.

Stiles' body, it's like, on high alert. Oversensitive, over-thinking this. Taking in Derek's breathing, how weird it is to feel that on his skin. Makes him, like, _over-feel_ his skin. And he's shaking, and it's making Stiles' skin prickle. Making him nervous and twitchy and unsettled, and that isn't right at all, because Stiles loves hugs. More than basically anything.

He _knows_ this.

Knows he's felt hugs, he's felt hugs and they were some of the best moments of his—

But that's not real, can't be, because he's still Stiles. In those really vivid fake memories, he's not some, some whatever he actually is. That got summoned here somehow. He's just Stiles.

He still feels like Stiles. Just, maybe—not _that_ one.

This body's one.

 

It's a little like having two sets of eyes. Like, looking out of one, Derek's gorgeous and also hot like sun, and they should kiss. Like, right now, and also forever.

Then the other set, the other view, all Stiles can think is how close Derek is. How weird that is. He's so up close Stiles can see how his skin fits together. Like palms, look at your palms, isn't that _weird_? All the little creases like that, like skin _origami_.

And his breath is so _loud_ this close. Stiles' own breath is so loud. And everything else is too quiet, and why are they standing so still? And Stiles has to just stand there under Derek's arms, trying to just think of random trivia, so he's not fidgeting his fingers off thinking about how _weird_ this is.

Back to first view, he's never felt more connected to another person, and also, they should bone. Like, right now, he's ready _right now_.

Maybe a little too ready, because Derek stiffens, and not in a fun way. Tenses, his arms drop.

He says, “Stiles. I'm not.”

Closes his mouth, reconsiders.

“I'm not attracted to you.”

Oh. Oh, wow, okay.

Stiles steps back just a little dizzily, tries not to feel like a complete idiot.

It doesn't really work.

"It's not—It's not you.” Derek says, even though this literally could not be more Stiles. I'm not attracted to you, because you're just really not at all attractive, but hey. Hey, hey. It's not you, okay? It's not me, it's you.

Oops. Freudian slip, there.

“Stiles," he says. Okay, this again, fun! Stiles is not getting tired of his own name, or whoever's name it is, at all. “Stiles. Stiles, wait. Just let me—”

Like there's anything left to explain, Stiles thinks dully, but Derek says,

"Stiles. I’m asexual."

 

“No you're not,” Stiles says, like an asshole.

Derek makes a face, takes a small step back.

“Kate,” Stiles says. “Argent,” he adds, in case Derek's forgotten. “You guys, you guys used to kiss all the time.”

"I like kissing," Derek says. Tired, with just an edge of defensiveness. "Touching. I'm not... It feels good. The contact."

"So, asexual," Stiles says. Really, he should know this. Four LGBTQA groups in his grade, and he's bi and knows basically everything there is to know about _that_ , but it turns out he's still this, this asexuality ignoramus. "Literally, just, no sex."

"It's a spectrum," Derek says, like he's memorized exactly how to explain this. "This is just what I like, and what I don't. Just me."

Kinsey scale, Stiles thinks.

Hale scale.

"So, like," Stiles says. "You never..."

"You mean Kate," Derek says.

"Well," Stiles says, feeling a little shitty. He's a step away from _You just haven't met the right person_ , at this rate. "Yeah."

"No," Derek says. "That's not how I am."

It's not like Stiles wasn't wondering. When Derek would make a move, or if he should. If Derek wasn't his first boyfriend, or whatever they are, it probably would've been obvious. He just didn't know, you know? The deal. What's normal, or like...

Derek's looking at him, just barely, lips pursing and pursing, eyebrows doing a Derek thing.

He's getting Sad Scott face.

And... wow. Stiles is a turd.

“That's cool,” Stiles says. He's thinking of Malia, that conversation with Malia he thought was about coming out. How nerve-wracking it was. And her reaction, every little thing that didn't sync up with party-planning levels of supportive.

It was like being sucker-punched.

“Hey,” Stiles says. “I didn't—I was just surprised. Because I'm—” He shakes his head. Doesn't matter. “But, hey. That's—It means a lot, you know? That you told me. That's—Coming out's never easy.”

Except Derek didn't really have a choice, did he. What with Stiles a second from humping him.

“So, like,” Stiles says. “Kate, she was—Or is that—”

“It was a real relationship,” Derek says, like he's running down a very tired list. “We weren't just friends. We loved each other.”

“No, I wasn't,” Stiles says. “I know. I just mean. Was she, like, straight? Or...”

Derek looks at him.

“I mean,” Stiles says hurriedly. “Sex, she didn't like—She also—”

He can't remember Kate Argent not having a boyfriend. And, like. Not a lowkey one, either. She dated probably half the basketball team at one point or another.

“We don't have to talk about this,” Derek says.

“No, hey,” Stiles says. “I just—I guess, I'm just wondering. Us, you know.”

“What we are,” Derek says. “If I'm dickless.”

“Yeah!” Stiles says, before he hears the second part. “Wait. Wait, _no_.”

Derek's not really looking at anything anymore.

“I wanna date you,” Stiles says. He's, wow, he's really batting a thousand at totally fucking this up. “If you wanna date me, I mean.”

“I... Yeah,” Derek says. Still not really looking at Stiles at all, still kind of frowning, and trying not to. “I really like you.”

“Oh, wow,” Stiles says, feeling gutted again. He crowds close to Derek, says, “I really like you. Too.”

“But,” Derek says, a little darkly.

“No,” Stiles says. “No ifs, buts, or asterisks.”

“Oh,” Derek says.

Looking at Stiles, finally, really looking.

“I wanna date you,” Stiles says, very seriously. “I wanna date the _shit_ out of you.”

Derek grins.

 

It's nice. It's really, really nice, instantly. Derek threading his fingers through Stiles', and later, Stiles' head on his chest, limbs starfished over and under him, half-watching Netflix from Stiles' bed. It's pretty much the nicest thing ever. Even Stiles' weird body seems to like it.

“Boyfriend,” Stiles says, a little goofy with it. “You're my _boyfriend_. I wasn't sure—”

“I would've told you,” Derek says. “Anyway. I was—working up to it.”

“God,” Stiles says. “I'm really, really sorry. For being so shitty, when you told me.”

He hates that. Thinking about Derek being anxious like that, and Stiles just stumbling. Saying the absolute worst thing, every time.

“I just,” he says. Embarrassed to even say it, but he has to. Has to explain.

“I thought you meant you didn't like me,” he says. “Like it was all in my head.”

“It wasn't,” Derek says. “It wasn't. I like you. I just don't like sex.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I guess—like, Beacon Hills is so accepting, you know? But really I only thought about the gluten-free BLT, you know. And Q and A were just like, 'Questions? Answers.'”

“ _Allies_ ,” Derek says, doing a Know-It-All But Wrong voice.

“Yeah,” Stiles says.

He's amazed, really, that Derek understood half of that. Didn't scrunch up his face and go, “What?”

Like Stiles is some gibberish monster, some alien.

Even if he is.

You can't rush a coming out, but Derek just did. Spilled his guts, like, _bared his heart_ to Stiles. And now it's Stiles' turn.

He just can't.

 _I'm not Stiles,_ he tries in his head, but he can't even start to say it. _I'm not human. I'm..._

_I don't know what I am._

You can't rush a coming out, but the longer they lay like this, the more it feels like lying.

 

Derek has curfew. It's maybe the weirdest thing Stiles ever finds out about him. He's eighteen, he's an _adult_. Legally, even. And he has a _bedtime_.

“It's not a _bedtime_ ,” he says. “I don't have to go to sleep. My mom just needs to know where I am.”

“You're here,” Stiles says, kind of snuggling into his shoulder. “Casa de Stilinski. Want me to call her? Parents love me.”

That's not remotely true, and Derek knows it.

“I'll text you,” he says.

It's only after he's gone, Stiles a quarter of the way through an episode of Dollhouse, that he realizes: Derek probably didn't have a curfew before Kate.

Before the fire.

 

Freshman year, Stiles was less than nobody, and Derek Hale was pretty much a celebrity. Hot and funny and smarter than some teachers, the least douchey of the popular kids, the prom king of kings. His love life a mystery, everyone just assumed no one was good enough. You know, guys like him, they don't date seriously in high school. Or at all, sometimes.

And then—Kate Argent.

It never made sense, to anybody. Kate _Argent_. Working her way through the basketball team, people joked. Every guy with a letterman's jacket, at least.

Sure, she was hotter than most supermodels, could shut you up with a look, made Lydia Martin look like a protégé. Sure, sure. But—dating _Derek Hale_? It just didn't _compute_.

For the most tolerant school body in California, Stiles realizes, they sure were a bunch of judgy assholes.

And then she tried to set his house on fire. And then she was in the hospital, for her _breakdown_ , according to everybody. And then she was dead.

People said: She set herself on fire. Her own _body_.

How did everybody know? Stiles has no idea, but _everybody knew_. All across the basketball team, all over school, guys were scoffing, shaking their heads. That same dumb line, a million versions of it.

_That's why you don't stick your dick in crazy._

As if anyone ever could've _predicted_ this. As if Derek could've. But all of a sudden, he was knocked off the top of the totem pole. Damaged.

But still pretty high, you know? Still getting plenty of offers. Girls thinking it was sweet, how devoted he was. Nicholas Sparks-level romantic tragedy.

And the longer he didn't give in, choose any of them, or all—the longer he didn't move on, the more people were like, Well, that's it. She _broke_ him.

Kate went down, Lydia took her place. Derek went down, Danny took his place.

People moved on.

 

It was her father, Derek said. Her dad was the real bad guy, he made her do it. Killed her mom, killed _her_ when she didn't kill Derek's family.

It sounds insane.

But nothing sounds sane, anymore. Stiles is so far past normal, it's not... normal.

And the look on Derek's face, when he said it—he wasn't guessing.

He _knew_.

 

Google-fu can only get you so far, but it gets Stiles a couple dozen articles on the fire and the suicide, especially notable because she was the sheriff's daughter. There's a family tree website where Stiles picks up that she had an older brother. Stiles doesn't remember him at all, but his name's Christian.

Yellowpages, Whitepages, Zillow, and Stiles has a maybe address in New Mexico and the first four digits of a phone number. A little more digging, there's a Facebook page under Chris Argent. The friend whose posts he's liked the most is a guy named Alan Deaton. 

Most of his Facebook page is a mix of links to and long quotes from academic papers and essays about the sociological and anthropological roots of folk tales, folk art, and the supernatural, and Libertarian politics. There's a photo of a little clay or maybe pottery dude with his dick in his hand, above an essay from Alan calling it a “Colima shaman vessel.”

It's about soul-guiding.

There's an email address in his About section labeled _for emergencies_ , and an address for a rare books store in Alamogordo, New Mexico.

Stiles hesitates for a little less than a second.

 

Next thing Stiles knows, it's half past five in the morning and he's got two Greyhound tickets to New Mexico.

And three hour-old texts to Malia.

_You wanna know what I am? So do I. I think this guy might be able to help._

With a link to Alan's Facebook.

_He's in Alamogordo NM. I got 2 bus tickets._

_Come with me._

 

“I don't know why I'm doing this,” Malia says.

Stiles does.

She's as awkward as he is, with the bonus of a little sister who's never met a crowd she couldn't turn into an entourage. Malia's been in and out of school basically her whole life, for talking back to teachers, going too far in schoolyard fights. This one time in kindergarten, Miss Hendricks tried to make her share the Lemonade Lisa doll, and Malia nearly bit her face off.

Stiles never once felt like a loser with her, because they were always in the exact same boat.

“You were his friend,” is what Stiles says instead. “And you're good at figuring things out. You want answers as bad as I do.”

“Bad _ly_ ,” Malia says, but she nods, hitches her bag a little higher on her shoulder.

 

Stiles is sick at the first two rest stops, weird and achy in between. His neck is still stiff from sleeping on the couch days before.

“What's wrong with you?” Malia says.

“Isn't that the question,” Stiles says, and presses his face to the window, tries to watch the scenery roll by.

“No,” Malia says. “What is _that_.” She pokes at the crook of his neck and shoulder. Stiles flinches.

“Oh my god, what _—_ ”

And then he sees it.

“What the _hell_ is that,” he says. He doesn't remember being hurt like that. Derek was just with him, he doesn't remember Derek noticing that.

And it's kinda impossible to miss, once you look at it. This dark, mottled bruising, not just in the spot Malia touched but all around his throat, all...

“Oh my god,” Stiles says. “That's not... It can't be.”

If it's what he thinks it is, the blood caught around his throat like a black eye, how can it just be showing _now_?

“On the phone,” Malia says. “On the phone, he was gasping. Choking.”

“Don't,” Stiles says. Feeling run over by a truck, all at once, feeling like he's gonna vomit again. “Don't torture yourself, okay? He wouldn't want that.”

“He _called_ me,” Malia says. She wont look away from his throat. “He wanted me to stop him. Or he wouldn't've called.”

“You don't know that,” Stiles says.

“ _I_ knew him,” Malia says venomously. “You don't. You're just a parasite.”

Stiles swallows, swallows, swallows. Stares out the window at nothing.

They don't really talk much, after that.


End file.
